


et mentem mortalia tangunt

by postcardmystery



Series: contra mundum [1]
Category: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corsica’s nothing like Cambridge, is it? Your hair is red in the sun. You’re speaking Latin in your sleep. Pinched one of your cigarettes, know you won’t mind. Don’t judge me too harshly for this in the morning. Know you won’t mind that either.</p><p>You love me, eh? Well, we all have our vices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	et mentem mortalia tangunt

Corsica.

6th - viii - 1930

Sixsmith,

you’re asleep. Don’t know why I’m telling you, you know it better than I do, & all that. It’s three in the morning and everybody sensible is in bed. Yes, you were always the sensible one, don’t remind me, I know that one off by heart. Your skin smells like the orange grove. I smell like brandy and Pater’s cigars. Fifteen-love.

Last night you told me that you loved me. Heard those words before. Never believed them.

Corsica’s nothing like Cambridge, is it? Your hair is red in the sun. You’re speaking Latin in your sleep. Pinched one of your cigarettes, know you won’t mind. Don’t judge me too harshly for this in the morning. Know you won’t mind that either.

You love me, eh? Well, we all have our vices.

R.F.

 

 

London.

21st - iii - 1930

Sixsmith,

Wrote all day. Just on paper, mind, can’t risk Pater hearing the slightest drabble. I’ll never be a Beethoven, my arse. Who asked him, miserable old goat? I’d send you the notation but we both know that without me as the conduit it might as well be in Old Norse. Remind me why I picked a bloody scientist, again?

Don’t need to. Remember that day we spent on the Cam? It rained, and I wore your jacket, & it was much too big. We sat beneath a willow tree with your head in my lap and I read you Catullus. Book drowned like Ophelia, it’s no use now. We can’t go back. I write, and I write, but we can’t go back. 

Don’t make me say it. I know that I’m tiresome, but write to me, you bastard. Me and Pater in this empty house. There are warmer ghosts. You miss me, how could you not? I feel your hands on my hips, & I remember. Write to me, Sixsmith. Don’t let the lights go out.

Sincerely, 

R.F.

 

 

London.

29th - iii - 1930

Sixsmith,

of course I’m not dead! You would have heard the familials cheering from whatever soggy hole it is you call home. (Gresham, I know.) Not dead, just dramatic. Yes, I know your refrain well. ‘Some things never change.’ Won’t say it. Know my part of our duet too well. Come to London. Be the sun that breaks through this storm. Don’t let me drown like that old Roman pamphlet that’s seen better days. Don’t make me say it, Sixsmith. You know I don’t beg.

I write until my fingers shake, but I can’t get it all out. Truth beneath the surface, and I cannot eke it out. Wake up in the morning and smell violets. Reach beneath the sheets and think of you. Five weeks til term starts. Everything’s eventual. Play at the pianoforte til my fingers burn and I can’t get it all out. 

Write to me, Sixsmith, for God’s sake. Write to me or come down here and remind me of the curve of your shoulders under one of your awful jumpers. I don’t care which one. Choose. Just, choose.

Sincerely,

R.F.

 

 

Never You Mind.

7th - xii - 1930

Sixsmith,

bad news. Something of an understatement, I’m afraid. Figured six days til Pater found about the whole sending down business. Rather a miscalculation. Thrown everything I could find in a trunk and legged it. Hiding out in the room of a boy I used to know at Balliol. Had to do some unpleasant things in the dark but he’s not a bad sport, really. Thick as a plank, of course, which makes getting things out of him gloriously simple. (Don’t be jealous, he doesn’t have your eyes. Nobody does.) Come down & see me. Would do me good to see a friendly face.

Tell no one. Not a soul. You’re all I’ve got left. Exhausted, have to stop here.

Sincerely,

R.F.

P.S. I meant it. Don’t be jealous. Since that day in the rain. Don’t be foolish; never think otherwise.

 

 

London.

17th - vii - 1930

Sixsmith,

Corsica in a week. Freedom smells like your abominable starched collars and my mouth after I’ve put it to good work on you. Let’s make it perfect. I’m a good judge of these things, my welcome with the Tabs is almost over. I outstay a lot of things, I’m a master at knowing when.

A week. Put on a record and think of me. We can dance there, think of that, just the two of us in a villa during sunset. I haven’t got long. I can’t go back, what good would it do, but, yet, I wonder. Pack well. You aren’t stepping a foot outside for the first week and that’s a promise.

I’ll meet you off the train. On time, this time!

Sincerely,

R.F.


End file.
